Requiem for a Soldier
by dudeurfugly
Summary: "The headstone she has been searching for doesn't stand out from the rest. That, however, doesn't make it any less important than the others. Every man here has made the ultimate sacrifice; every man deserves the same amount of respect and appreciation."


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything from **_**Band of Brothers**_**. I realize the story is based upon the lives of real men who served in the military, and I have the utmost respect and gratitude for them. **

**A/N: This is my first **_**Band of Brothers**_** fanfic, so I'm nervous about posting it. Go easy on me, guys! I've read a lot of wonderful stories on here—I hope mine does some justice. It isn't much, but I felt compelled to write something to honor the soldier described in this piece (and really, all of them), since we both hail from the same area of New York. Hope you like it. **

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She stands at the entrance, her eyes surveying the expanse of impossibly green, freshly cut grass that covers over fifty acres and beyond. The scene is immaculate. The sky is a deep shade of periwinkle, undisturbed by clouds or the slightest chance of rain. Today the weather is warm, and the sun's rays drench the rows of headstones in their Heavenly light. Past the meticulously uniformed lines of simple white marble crosses, two flags stand guard on either side of larger monuments, waving in the soft breeze. She watches them for a moment, admiring the vibrant red, white, and blue of the stars and stripes, more thankful for all that it signifies now that she is the presence of men who fought and died for it.

She has seen the photographs online, but nothing prepares her for witnessing the real thing. She is absolutely humbled. Stepping through the entrance of the Luxembourg American Cemetery, under the warmth of the sun, she thinks it is hard to believe the soldiers interred here were killed during the biting cold of winter, not too far from these very grounds. Walking down one of the main pathways, she is left breathless at the sight of more than five thousand graves. She is speechless because of it, realizing that the men at peace here have given the ultimate sacrifice for their country. They are fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons who have made their families proud, albeit in a bittersweet way.

The tone is somber, and rightfully so. She is aware of the difference immediately, from the second she set foot on this hallowed ground. She isn't the only one milling about on this bright, summer day, but the reverent silence makes it seem as such. There are a few elderly couples who have come to pay their respects, and she assumes they, more than anyone, know the sheer weight of emotions this place brings forth. Some other tourists carry miniature flags, scoping the rows for, presumably, family members or friends. She spots an elderly veteran toting two young grandchildren, holding the hand of the youngest, a little boy, who is clutching his own flag in his small fist. His wife flanks them, her gaze off in the distance where the headstones reach the edges of the clearing. The grandfather crouches down in front of a gravestone and gathers the children into his arms in front him, pointing as he attempts to explain the past in a gentle manner.

She doesn't think the enormity of this place will strike the young children, because she can't even fully grasp it herself. However, she lets a faint smile grace her lips at the sight of this man, who has experienced the horrors of war himself, passing along something important—something not to be forgotten—to the next generation. Taking her eyes away, she continues off the beaten path, following the headstones, which have been organized in alphabetical order.

The headstone she has been searching for doesn't stand out from the rest. Nothing makes it different beside the name it is engraved with. That, however, doesn't make it any less important than the others. Every man here has made the ultimate sacrifice; every man deserves the same amount of respect and appreciation.

She pauses in front of the standard white marble cross and takes a deep breath. She doesn't know what to do at first. She has thought about this situation so many times in the past, rehearsing what she would say to this young soldier at his gravesite, but nothing comes to mind at the present. Finally, she kneels before the cross, her knees sinking into the soft grass. She sits back on her legs and takes another breath, overcome with a mix of emotions for this soldier. Reaching out her hand, she touches the cool stone, tracing the lettering with her fingers.

_WARREN H. MUCK_

_SGT 506 PRCHT INF 101 ABN DIV_

_NEW YORK JAN 10 1945_

She puts the red rose she has been carrying in front of the stone, lying it down reverently.

"Hi," she says at last. She instantly feels a bit of stupidity for it, but she's at a loss for words. There are a lot of things she could tell him. Her mind is swimming with declarations of patriotism and gratitude, among others. But she feels content just sitting there. She closes her eyes for a moment and concentrates on the whisper of a breeze that floats along her skin and stirs through her hair. She imagines the young mortar man as if he was settled on the ground across from her, dressed in his olive green uniform.

"I realize you don't know me," she continues. Regretfully, she's never had the pleasure of meeting him. He'd lived, fought, and died in a time long before her own. She isn't a relative or a friend. She's merely a stranger who's felt a thread of a connection. It's out of admiration for a hometown hero that brings her to his resting place today.

She doesn't know all that much about him, this man they affectionately addressed as "Skip." After seeing his Army life depicted on screen and doing research, she found herself attached to his story. She understands where he comes from because that's where she belongs, too. She knows the area; although, not quite the way he did, in an era long gone before she came into existence. She finds amusement in his antics during his own upbringing, particularly the well-known tale of swimming across the Niagara River on a dare at night, and she can't possibly imagine herself doing such a crazy act. She takes to heart his unwavering friendship with his brothers in arms, his dedication to the service of his country, and his charismatic personality.

He was a remarkable person, who had the privilege of fighting amongst many more amazing people. He was a lot braver than she ever will be. He was one of the elite, the best of the best—a courageous paratrooper in a relentless war.

She wishes she could have met him.

Instead, she has to settle for this solemn visit. But, actions speak louder than words, so she is happy to pay her respects. It is the least she can do when she feels like she should contribute a lot more.

"I just wanted to say thank you," she finishes. She thinks those two words are all she needs to say, now that she's actually had some time to sit before his headstone. She thinks the simple statement speaks volumes more than an entire premeditated speech could. The longer she reflects upon everything she wants to tell Skip, it all comes down to those two words.

Before she leaves, she has to place one more thing by the rose. She hopes his friends and family don't mind the meager offering by a complete stranger. It's nothing more than a plastic green paratrooper, small enough to rest in the palm of her hand; a children's toy she found months ago that made her smile. The action figure has strings attached to its back, which are in turn connected to a piece of olive green cellophane that serves as his parachute.

She gets to her feet and holds the toy paratrooper in the air. Counting to three, she lets it fall from her grasp. The parachute attached deploys, and the plastic paratrooper—which she names Skip—catches the light breeze. The soldier floats for a moment before landing on the grass beside the rose, where he will stay with his counterpart.

She wonders how the real Skip would react if he learned that they were now making children's toys out of a job he gave his life to.

With a smile, she takes in the sight of the marble cross one last time. She runs the tips of her fingers over the top of the stone, gives the sergeant a smile, and slowly walks away.

When she steals another fleeting look at a distance, she knows it's only her wild imagination that pictures the young paratrooper of Easy Company standing at attention beside his own monument, giving her a salute.

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**A/N: I have wanted to write this ever since I saw the picture of Skip's gravestone. Kind of a self-insert, but in a respectful, non-Mary Sue way. Hope you liked this fic! Please review, it would be appreciated!**


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